


The Simple Affair

by Mrs_Spooky



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7788310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Spooky/pseuds/Mrs_Spooky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was such a simple assignment, why then wasn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Stopped For A Coat

His world was reduced to a red haze of pain with the sounds of screaming in his ears. There was a brief respite in the cause of the pain where Napoleon realized with wonder that the screaming he was hearing was his own.

Bleary eyes focused with diffuculty on his interrogator, an almost bored-looking middle-aged man of Chinese extraction wearing a white lab coat. Ying his name was, it was coming back to him now. The face was looming over where he was restrained on the slab in the cold, almost antiseptic-looking lab of sorts. He was able to focus on the face who turned to speak briefly with a dark-skinned man similarly clad in a lab coat, who nodded and left on some errand.

The face loomed in closer, his nose almost touching Napoleon’s.

“We’ve been at this for hours, Mister Solo. Just tell me what you did with the girl, then you can describe the organizational structure of U.N.C.L.E. with details on how to get into your headquarters in New York. That’s all. Then I promise we will make you more comfortable.”

“You can start with your breath,” Napoleon replied, trying to smile but could only manage a sneer. He was satisfied with that.

Ying straightened and turned to a THRUSH-uniformed younger man who whispered in his ear as Napoleon tried to swallow the metallic taste in his mouth. He bent down again.

“U.N.C.L.E. agents don’t work alone, who’s your partner, what was his function and where is he. Does he have the girl?”

Napoleon coughed in Ying’s face, spattering it with pink-tinged spittle, “I was alone. I was supposed to pick up Miss DeStephano and take her to our New York office. It was a simple assignment and only one agent was needed. I don’t know where she is, she could have gone anywhere by now.”

Ying wiped his face and applied another shock to his captive. He never grew tired of hearing the screams of his subjects. He was THRUSH’s best interrogator, called in on the most difficult of cases, which this one appared to be. There was the possibility he was telling the truth, but he had to be sure. Ying wanted to get this resolved quickly because there was a blizzard approaching the area and he didn’t want to get stuck in the spartan quarters THRUSH provided at this satrap in Minnesota. This place was very well fortified and he was confident that they could defend it from any assault or rescue attempt, but he was longing for his plush hotel room. 

“I ask you again, who were you working with and where did he take the girl? You expect us to believe that U.N.C.L.E. would send a lone agent at a cocktail party to retrieve someone of Miss DeStephano’s importance?”

Napoleon moaned, “I answer your questions and you call me a liar. Just kill me now and be done with it.”

Ying raised his hand to apply another shock when lights flashed red and alarms sounded, startling the standing occupants of the room, the supine Napoleon closing his eyes, beyond caring.

The THRUSH guard fled the room and returned almost immediately, “Our outer perimeter was breached, someone has penetrated the compound!”

“Impossible! Where is Security? Nobody could have gotten in here. And shut that bloody thing off!”

The guard threw a switch on a nearby console, silencing the alarm in the soundproofed room. The door hissed open and another guard rushed in, “Doctor Ying, we have to get you out of here. The building has been penetrated, we don’t know who, how many, or even how. And there’s no point interrogating Solo any more. The girl and the man who drove off with her have been found. They’re dead, sir.”

Napoleon closed his eyes in resignation. Illya was supposed to take Carla DeStephano to New York, but obviously didn’t make it. He was going to die and his last assignment was a failure, losing not only DeStephano, but Illya as well. His only comfort was that he would soon be joining his partner.

Ying, irritated now that he wouldn’t be able to spend the night in the plush hotel he reserved, waved a hand to dismiss the guard, “I have a job to do, take care of it. Whoever it is will be caught and then I get to deal with him next.”

As Ying was returning his attentions to Napoleon, the building shook with a **WHUMP** as if something very large had exploded nearby. “What was that??” He poked a key on the console, “How did an army penetrate your defenses? What kind of operation are you running here? What is the status?”

A near panicked voice came over the intercom, “It wasn’t an army sir, just one man. One of the guards got a glimpse of him, it’s Kuryakin!”

Kuryakin! Of course! Solo lied when he said he was alone, and worse, he was with Kuryakin. The Russian’s fearsome reputation was well known among the THRUSH hierarchy and just the name struck fear in even their most savage footsoldiers. Nobody else could have done this.

“FIND HIM! KILL HIM, I don’t care how, I want that Russian dead. NOW!” Ying screamed in panic.

Through slitted eyes, Napoleon watched the terror that was overtaking Ying and the guard that was left in the room with great satisfaction. He smiled with sudden hope. _Only Illya…_

Napoleon found himself giggling, “He’s not even Russian,” he chortled through his pain.

Ying fought down the panic as he turned to Napoleon, “Well Mister Solo, I have to leave you now. Your friend won’t find anything worth saving, I’m afraid.” He motioned to the guard who raised his gun to aim it at Napoleon when the door to the interrogation room was blown in, knocking the guard from his feet and into Ying, the two of them thrown across the room to land in a heap in the corner.

“TOOK you long enough,” Napoleon whispered weakly to the perspiring, shaggy, blond THRUSH-uniformed young man who was quickly unstrapping him from the table.

“I had to stop for a coat, it’s cold out,” he responded calmly, hauling Napoleon over his shoulder with a sack he was carrying and hurried him from the room.

Napoleon held on as best he could, leaving one of Illya’s arms free to return the fire of any THRUSHies that were still standing. Even in his dazed condition, Napoleon was impressed with the damage this one man could do. Napoleon knew how terrifying his partner was and was once again reminded how fortunate he was that he had Illya as a friend.

Illya navigated the corridors quickly, “We’re almost out. We have to move quickly, this whole place is going to blow in two minutes.”

 

“Thass mah boy,” Napoleon mumbled weakly as he lost consciousness.

 


	2. Illya Gets Creative

Carla DeStephano was a lab assistant who had contacted U.N.C.L.E. through channels when she found that the scientist she was working with was building a laser device powerful enough to bring down any aircraft. She didn’t know that the purpose of his creation was when she first started working with him, but an overheard conversation revealed the true purpose of the device. She had a photographic memory and had memorized the schematics and components needed to build such a thing, destroyed the physical records then fled. It should be days before her activities were detected because the scientist insisted on taking the Christmas holiday off with his family.

U.N.C.L.E. told her they were sending a man to collect her and to sit tight. He would be there the next day.

Waverly insisted that only Napoleon would be needed. Miss DeStephano had assured them that the destruction of the plans would not be discovered for almost a week, and only one man was needed to escort her to New York.

Illya got wind of the assignment and joined Napoleon at the airport to catch the flight to Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, clad in his customary black suit with black turtleneck under his winter coat.

“What are you doing here?” Napoleon asked in surprise.

“I have trust issues,” came the retort. “Miss DeStephano claims that she won’t be discovered, which tells ME that she already has.”

Napoleon shook his head in mock annoyance, “Such a suspicious little man. You do know that you probably won’t get paid, don’t you?”

“I talked to Mister Waverly. I can be very persuasive,” Illya responded over his shoulder as he preceeded Napoleon through the entrance at LaGuardia. Napoleon stopped for a moment, contemplating, then followed his partner in. He was going to have to come up with another plan, but then, Illya was good at contingency plans.

 

***

 

While taking the same flight, the partners separated on the plane, Napoleon sitting near the front, Illya in the tail section. They would not meet personally for the duration of the assignment that was only going to last a few hours. Pick up Carla DeStephano and bring her back to headquarters where she would be safe. Simple.

Napoleon arrived to make contact with Carla at the address she had provided. She answered the knock on her hotel room door and greeted the smiling, sharply-dressed man who introduced himself as Napoleon Solo. She caught her breath, thinking he looked like a movie star in his navy suit and black trench coat. She ushered him in quickly and closed the door behind him.

“We have a problem,” she started.

The smile faded, “What kind of problem?” Napoleon noted the pink cocktail dress she was wearing. His eyes scanned the room and looked in the closet, under the bed, checked the bathroom and peeked out through the curtains drawn against the dark. 

“There is a cocktail party at eight I have to go to in the ballroom downstairs,” she said, wringing her hands. “I only have to stay for a half hour, I told them I had a plane to catch back to Fargo to visit my family. They would not take ‘no’ for an answer. Besides, I WANT to go. I’ve never been to a cocktail party before.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible,” Napoleon responded. “We are to board the return flight to New York in an hour. The longer you’re still here, the more danger you’re in.”

“But it would be highly suspicious if I wasn’t there,” she insisted. “Doctor Levant’s colleagues will be there even if he isn’t, and they told me this morning that they are looking forward to meeting me.”

“I’ll bet they are,” said Napoleon grimly. “No, you are to come now if you want to get out of this alive.”

She stood her ground, folding her arms.

He checked his watch. It was seven thirty, only a half hour until the party was supposed to start. If she was correct in assuming that she hadn’t been discovered, then delaying their trip to the airport by an hour could be acceptable, particularly if her absence could cause a premature discovery. 

With a sigh, he pulled out his pen communicator and activated it, “Open channel F. … Illya? You there?”

“Napoleon, what’s taking so long?” the accented voice came over the communicator. Carla’s eyes widened.

“Ahh, there’s going to be a slight delay in getting out of here. She said she’s expected at a cocktail party downstairs that starts in a half hour. She only needs to stay for a half hour then leave. She told them she was catching a plane to Fargo to visit family.”

“Bad idea. We need to leave now, Napoleon.”

“Stay alert. I’ll meet you by the doors outside the ballroom in an hour. Out.” He cut the connection to stave off any protests from his partner. Turning to the young woman in front of him, “Does anyone there know any details about your private life? If you’re seeing anyone?”

“Um, nnnoooo,” she thought hard. “No. They’re not very talkative in that lab. We never discussed anything that wasn’t work related. I don’t know if anyone there is married, dating or what.”

“Ok, good. I will be your date for tonight. My name is Brian Coleman. We haven’t been dating long and I am flying to Fargo with you to meet your family. I have family there too. Got it?”

She smiled, pleased at the thought of having such a gorgeous boyfriend, even if it was only for one evening. She looked into the determined green-brown eyes that she could tell very often had a twinkle in them. Carla hoped she would have a chance to get to know him better.

Taking their coats, Napoleon escorted Carla down the elevator and then navigated the halls till they found the ballroom holding the party. There were a dozen people there already, Napoleon surreptiously scanning his surroundings for anything suspicious. He stayed alert through his smiles and pleasant small talk, checking his watch. Only twenty more minutes and they can make good their escape without looking like they were making an escape.

Levant’s colleagues were paying a lot of attention to Carla to her delight and to Napoleon’s consternation. 

“And who would this young man be, Carla?” smiled a middle-aged, handsomely attired woman introduced to them as Doctor Wight who was thoroughly inspecting Napoleon.

“Oh,” she smiled up at Napoleon, who was shaking the woman’s hand, himself smiling, “this is my boyfriend, Brian. Brian Coleman. He’s going with me to Fargo. He has family there too and we’re all going to get together to celebrate the new year.”

“Sounds pretty serious,” said the woman, still smiling.

“Quite serious,” Napoleon agreed smoothly, tightening his arm around Carla’s waist. He checked his watch again, “But I’m afraid we need to get moving. We have a plane to catch, don’t we, sweetie?”

“Oh yes. Yes! Thank you for reminding me,” Carla agreed quickly. “I don’t know what I would do without him, he keeps me so on schedule.”

“Oh that’s a shame,” said a large youngish man who had just entered with two others just like him. “Are you SURE you can’t stay longer?”

“Quite sure,” Napoleon answered for Carla. “Well, it’s a pleasure meeting you all. We really must be going, these tickets are non refundable and I’m out of money to reschedule. My brother is meeting us at the airport so we can’t be late.” 

Napoleon and Carla said their goodbyes as he ushered Carla to the door. Illya would be waiting in the car outside, no doubt seething. He was going to get an earful if they got out of there. The three men were approaching them with forced casualness and he had no doubt that he was right about the party being a trap. They grabbed their coats and donned them as they approached the glass doors to the outside. Almost there.

The car was idling at the curb, just as expected. Napoleon opened the door for Carla to get in when he was jumped from behind.  
  
“GET HER OUT OF HERE!” he yelled and turned to fight off the three men who had followed them out. He heard the squealing tires as Illya sped off in the car. One of the men watched it go and pulled out a communicator of his own.

 

***

 

Illya divided his attention between the road ahead and his rear view mirror and noted the man watching the car. He’s going to have to ditch this car and get another one. And Carla is going to have to lose that ridiculous cocktail dress if he was going to her out of there. 

Carla was crying, “I should have listened. Napoleon was right.”

“Of course he was right,” snapped Illya, furiously formulating a plan. He was heading towards the airport, but the roads would be watched and the description of the car would have been transmitted to all THRUSHies in the area. 

Illya sighed, realizing he had no coice. He pulled out his communicator and opened channel D and was connected to Waverly.

 

***

 

“Mister Kuryakin, report. You, Mister Solo and Miss DeStephano are supposed to be on a plane back to New York.”

“Well sir, there’s been a slight change of plans,” came the voice over the speaker. “It turns out THRUSH was on to her already and they’ve got Napoleon. I have Miss DeStephano but they saw the car I’m driving, so I need to get creative if I’m going to get her safely to the airport.”

“I’ve seen your creative streak, Mister Kuryakin. I will see you and Miss DeStephano when you arrive in New York.”

Illya skidded around a corner, almost spinning out on the ice that was not visible in the dark. Some expert steering and breaking righted the car as he continued on his way. 

“You will need to have someone meet Miss DeStephano at the airport, I’m staying to get Napoleon. And we will require an extraction unit,” Illya told him firmly.

Waverly looked at the mic he was speaking into. If it was anyone but Kuryakin, he would have been furious at the contradiction, but Solo was in trouble and he knew that it was useless to argue. He sighed, poking some buttons on the console in front of him. 

“Very well. I will ready a unit in the area and they will await further instructions. Agent Dancer will meet Miss DeStephano at LaGuardia. I expect hourly reports at the very least. Good luck.” He broke the connection. Waverly called Lisa Rogers and ordered tea to be sent to his office and to get her on the task of arranging the extraction team. It was going to be a long night.

 

***

 

“Tell me about this lab you work in,” stated Illya.

“The lab?” sobbed Carla, still in shock.

“The lab! Quickly!”

“Oh, Ummm, it’s like a not very large industrial complex at the western edge of Eden Prairie, called Egret Industrial. It’s surrounded by woods. Umm… they must do some highly confidential work in there, the security is very tight. Electric fence around it and a guard station to get through. You have to go through guards to even get into the building. Lots of guards and they’re all armed what’s going to happen to Napoleon, is he going to die because of me?”

“Insignia on the guards’ uniforms?”

“Some kind of bird-looking thing,” she said. “Why? And what about Napoleon?” This strange person was starting to terrify her. Grim and taciturn, he took no time for pleasantries or even common courtesies. She hoped it was the situation they were in and that this wasn’t his normal personality. Carla just wanted to get as far away from him as she could.

There weren’t any headlights behind them, so Illya slowed the car. They were in a fairly sparsely populated area now and were no closer to the airport.

Illya was nodding. “What kind of security do they have set up there? Cameras? Infrared? Dogs?”

Carla thought for a bit, trying to remember the details of the security they were bragging about. The man’s impatience was unnerving her. “They have cameras, and dogs,” she told him with certainty. She saw his grimace, “I don’t remember hearing about infrared though,” she added quickly.

“Which building did you work in?”

“Ummm, Building C. It’s the big one in the middle of everything. Does that help?”

“It does. Thank you.”

He pulled up in front of a trailer that was set up as a house on the side of the road. It was ramshackle and in need of repairs and no lights were on, but there was, incongruously, a fairly new white Camaro in the driveway. Turning off the car, with a “Wait here,” Illya trudged up the snowy driveway and approached the front door and knocked.

He pulled his coat more tightly around him, raising his collar against the freezing wind that was picking up. Illya could smell a blizzard coming, which could be useful for what he planned to do, or if things went wrong, a hindrance. He made a note for future reference.

No lights came on in answer to his knock, so he tried the door knob. To his surprise, it was unlocked. He entered, then caught his breath. The place smelled like death. He found a light switch to turn on the lights and found a ghastly sight. A man and a woman, both fairly young, dead, sprawled on the furniture. There was a piece of paper being held down by a burned out candle that Illya picked up and read. He shook his head at the suicide note that had been left behind by the deceased. Things weren’t going well for them financially, so they decided to end it all. 

Moving to the door, he waved Carla inside. She started out of the car and headed gingerly up the icy, snow-covered driveway to the trailer. The Russian’s waving grew even more impatient, so she found herself hurrying, not wanting to irritate this terrifying man. She was frightened of Russians to begin with, what with the Cold War and all. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing with Napoleon and why he would entrust her to him.

She recoiled at the smell and stifled a shriek at the sight of the bodies. “Why did you bring me in here? To show me THIS?” she cried out in horror.

Illya returned from the bedroom carrying some clothes, holding them up to her. “Put these on.”

“Eeew no, I’m not putting on some dead woman’s clothes, are you crazy?” she cried, her fear of Illya overshadowed by the horror in the trailer.

Illya looked at her for a moment. “We need to get you to the airport. You heard my boss, there will be an agent waiting for you when you get there. Her name is April Dancer, you will be safe with her. THRUSH is looking for a young woman in a pink cocktail dress, so you are going to have to lose it. Put these clothes on. Now. toss your dress, stockings and shoes this way when they come off.”

Illya turned his back and began undressing the dead woman on the sofa. Resolutely averting her eyes from the scene in front of her, she tossed the garments to Illlya who was busy dressing the now naked dead woman with her things.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, now more comfortably dressed. She was still shuddering at the sight in front of her and this Russian who so callously changed a dead woman’s clothes.

Carla stood by the door as Illya lifted the stiff bodies over his shoulder and lugged them out to the car. He put the woman in the passenger’s seat and the man in the middle. Returning to the trailer, Illya found a set of keys hanging on the hook by the door and grabbed them along with  jackets for himself Carla, a couple of knitted hats, a bag of tools, and a few other things then pulled her out the door, closing it behind her. He handed her the keys to the Camaro.

“Follow me, then we’ll get you to the airport,” Illya said, transferring the contents of the coat he was wearing into the man’s jacket he had donned, dressing the man in the coat he had on.  He handed her the keys to the couple’s car.

He drove the rental car back in the direction from whence they came until he found the spot where he almost wiped out. He stuck his hand out for her to stop, so she pulled over. 

Illya gunned the engine and drove the car into a tree on the side of the road. He had braced himself for the crash and short of some bruises and a cut on his forehead from hitting the windshield, he was unscathed. The woman’s body had hit the windshield too, the two of them leaving two star patterned shatters in the glass. He had held the man’s head down to keep it off the glass when they crashed.

Carla watched him pull the man’s body over to the driver’s seat as he exited the vehicle. He walked back to the car where Carla was sitting and demanded her purse.

“My purse???” she cried, seriously finished with this Russian as he snatched the bag from her hand. What else do you want, my teeth? Should I give you the hair off my head?”

“Your jewelry. Necklace, earrings, watch, rings. Please.”

Suddenly it dawned on her what he was trying to do. She handed the items over to him and watched him adorn the corpse in the car he had crashed.

Illya could smell gasoline as he placed the jewelry on the woman’s body. Other than size, the woman didn’t resemble DeStephano at all, but he could fix that. He pulled out a flashlight he had retrieved from the trailer and shined it under the car. He could see gasoline dripping but not close enough to the engine to ignite on the hot spark plugs. He stepped back and pulled his gun, firing at the wet patch under the car. The third round had the desired effect and he moved quickly to get out of range of the explosion as the flames moved closer to the break in the fuel line. 

Carla hurried around to the passenger’s seat as Illya got behind the wheel and sped off towards the airport, leaving the fireball of the exploding rental behind them.

 

***

 

The rest of the drive to the airport was uneventful, Illya having arranged for a later flight for them when Napoleon informed him of the change of plans. Carla, her brown hair tucked under the knitted cap walked quickly with Illya to the gate. He pressed the boarding pass into her hands. “I will inform Agent Dancer of what you are wearing. She will know you. You will know her when you see a young lady in her late twenties, shoulder length brown hair, brown eyes. Very pretty. She will introduce herself. Go with her. Trust her completely. “

Carla nodded, uncertanly. “Is she as ruthless as you are?”

Illya almost smiled. “My methods are my own, but, she also stops at nothing to achieve her objective,” he answered. Then, “She’s a nice lady, you will like her,” he added.

“What’s going to happen to Napoleon?” Carla asked again. 

“Your flight is boarding,” he jerked his chin towards the ticket agent collecting boarding passes. 

  

***

 

Illya watched until they closed the gate, then hurried back to the Camaro he had appropriated. As he started the car, he radioed a description of what Carla was wearing to April and let her know she had boarded the plane. He alerted her to the fact that Carla had been crying. April didn’t ask.

“I’ll be there. You’re going to need help,” April told him.

“I know where the satrap is, and I believe I know where he’s being held. We will most likely need an extraction unit, Mister Waverly said he was setting one up.”

“Confirmed. Mister Waverly asked me to tell you that the unit will be assembling in Edina. Any closer to Minneapolis/St Paul would attract too much attention.”

Illya confirmed and broke the connection, hurrying to Eden Prairie. It was approaching midnight by now and it was certain that THRUSH would be interrogating Napoleon. He knew his partner could hold out, but not forever. 

This was supposed to be a simple affair, he thought. Go and get the girl and return with her to New York. Consequently, he was not equipped for a rescue beyond the tools he normally wore. A quick check of the tool bag he grabbed from the trailer revealed some bolt cutters, a diamond glass cutter, electrical tape, various wire cutters, a crow bar… This guy did not earn an honest living, Illya determined. Any qualms he may have felt for robbing the trailer were quickly extinguished. They were already dead, they won’t miss this stuff. He knew U.N.C.L.E. would have an opinion on the matter, but he didn’t care. Napoleon needed rescuing and he could not afford to be slowed down by the niceities U.N.C.L.E. insisted on.

He stopped the car a quarter mile from the industrial complex around the corner from the main gate and called in a report to Waverly, letting him know that April was informed of Carla’s presence on the plane, that he was at the satrap and he was going in. Waverly informed him that the extration unit was ready for him on channel C. Pocketing the keys, Illya carried the bag towards the industrial camp, and his friend.

 


	3. He Gets the Job Done

The last flight out of Minneapolis/St Paul landed at LaGuardia airport in New York City.  Carla, who had wept off and on blaming herself during the flight, followed the passengers off the plane. Due to the lateness of the hour, there weren’t a lot of people waiting for those deplaning. She looked around, a bit lost, sniffling. A young woman approached her sympathetically. 

“Carla DeStephano?” she asked. When Carla nodded, she nodded in return, wrapping her arm around her, “I’m April Dancer and I’m going to take you to safety. Come with me.”

Carla had no choice but to accompany the young woman named April Dancer who had her arm firmly around her shoulders. “I don’t have my luggage,” she said plaintively.

April smiled, “No, I don’t expect that you do. Don’t worry, we have stores in New York. And we can find more suitable clothes if you like.”

“Yes please!” She began relaying to April her flight from the hotel, but was quickly shushed, that she could relay the tale when they got back to headquarters.

April made small talk on their way to wherever they were going. Carla had never been to New York City, only seeing it in movies and on TV. The skyscrapers were overwhelming and made her forget her fear of the people who would capture her and ruthless Russian she had just escaped. She found herself starting to relax with the utterly charming, pretty young woman who was driving her. For the first time in days, she felt safe.

Carla was excited to see the United Nations building as they passed. A few blocks later, the car turned into a parking garage that seemed to be mostly under ground. April escorted her through a door that was opened via combination and into a reception area. April was handed her triangular yellow number 22 badge, Carla given a green 36 badge. She lost track of the twists and turns and upstairs and downstairs route to their destination. Thoroughly lost, she found herself in an office with tall windows along one wall with a circular table dominating the room. An elderly man in tweed wearing a badge that had the number 1 on it rose to meet them.

“Miss DeStephano, please have a seat. You too, Miss Dancer. Please. My name is Alexander Waverly and I’m in charge of all this. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” he started. The women sat. “Have you eaten?” he asked of Carla. 

“Well, they had snacks on the plane,” she said, shyly, despite the cordial greeting from this craggy, elderly man. Carla was again wondering what she had gotten herself into and if she made the right move in contacting U.N.C.L.E. about what she had learned.

Waverly nodded and poked a button on a console. He ordered a tray of food to be brought to his office. He poked the console again and almost immediately, the door to the room hissed open to admit a tall, very slender no nonsense woman wearing a yellow sweater and brown skirt. Her brown hair tumbling over her shoulders.

“Oh Miss Rogers, this is Miss Carla DeStephano I was telling you about.”

 The woman turned her attention to Carla, looking her over appraisingly. She smiled and stuck out her hand with a “Pleased to meet you. I’m Lisa Rogers.” 

“Miss Rogers is my assistant, she will see to your needs while you are here,” Waverly told her. “And now, young lady. I need you to tell us all that transpired since you met Mister Solo.”

Carla took a deep breath and relayed the events from the past few hours, sparing no detail. Dinner arrived as she was telling them about Illya’s actions at the trailer. She noted Waverly’s brows furrowing and Lisa’s and April’s knowing glances. She finished with Illya putting her on the plane. They already knew the rest and she said so.

Waverly sat back, disturbed, but accepting. “He certainly IS resourceful,” he commented. “Not exactly U.N.C.L.E.-approved methods, but…”

“He gets the job done,” echoed April and Lisa.

“Yes. Indeed,” he agreed, making a note to speak to his agent should he return alive from his mission to rescue Napoleon.

“Will he have reinforcements when he goes in to save Napoleon?” Carla asked anxiously.

“No,” said Waverly flatly. “I hate to say it but it’s a fool’s mission. But,” he continued, “if there is a fool who could pull it off, it’s Mister Kuryakin. He does have a better chance of infiltrating that satrap alone than he would with an army with him. We have to trust his judgement on this. We have a unit standing by to bring them out. He asked for one, so in all likelihood it will be needed.”

Carla shook her head. She had heard of U.N.C.L.E. and that they were on the side of law and order, protecting the world against threats against the order of things, but she was not prepared for the methods that were used to do it and she said so. 

Lisa spoke up, “You may have noticed Illya’s Russian.” Carla nodded. “Specifically, Illya’s Ukrainian, but raised by Russia. He’s very good at following U.N.C.L.E. protocols, but there are times when he decides our methods hinder his ability to do what needs to be done, and our niceties get thrown out the window if his methods are quicker. You - and we - were fortunate he went with Mister Solo. This was supposed to have been a one man assignment. You were safer with Mister Kuryakin than with any other person on Earth. Believe that.”

“And, Mister Solo is a dear friend of his,” Waverly added. “Anyone threatening Mister Solo or impeding Mister Kuryakin’s mission to rescue him will be dealt with most harshly.”

April was nodding. Carla nodded too, supressing a shudder, not wanting to know. She finished her dinner and looked helplessly from Lisa to April to Waverly. “What happens now?”

“Well for now, young lady, you will be residing with us here at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Oh you will be quite safe here. Miss Rogers will see you to your quarters and arrange for clothing for you. I understand you will want to change.” Carla nodded. “And shower. We have everything you need here. We will have you provide the information you obtained to our science division, after which, you will likely require a new identity, since THRUSH knows who you are and might be looking for you if they discover Mister Kuryakin’s ruse and find you are still alive.”

Carla hadn’t considered that. She teared up. Waverly looked to Lisa, who laid a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, let me take you to your quarters. We’ll have some pajamas and a set of clothing sent for you.” 

Lisa nodded to Waverly and April, and with Carla saying her goodnights, left with her to take her to the guest quarters.

Waverly sat back with a sigh and reached for his pipe and humidor. April smiled fondly, “Well, he didn’t kill anybody.”

“Yet,” agreed Waverly as he stuffed his pipe. “I trust everyone remaining in that satrap tonight won’t be as fortunate.” He lighted his pipe, and, puffing, “I pity anyone who gets in his way when he rescues Mister Solo.”

 

***

 

Illya was used to cutting through electrified fences. He deftly cut what needed cutting, being careful to avoid touching the metal directly. 

He was through. 

His sharp eyes located the cameras. They were set up to sweep areas thoroughly. One to sweep an area after the other had moved on to another. Thorough. The area between the fence and the nearest cover was roughly thirty feet. He watched the camera currently scanning the area between himself and the nearest cover as the other was scanning back. He caught it just so and scampered to nearest cover, which was a guard shed. He listened and heard nothing, so he counted to three. He rushed around to the door and burst in, his gun at ready. There was one man in there in THRUSH uniform who leapt to his feet only to be dispatched by Illya before he could reach the alarm button. Remembering, he activated his communicator to channel D and reported, “I’m in,” then cut the connection, not waiting for a response.

He found the controls to the alarm systems and wasn’t surprised to note that they had redundant alarms. Judging from the security of the place, he deduced that disabling the wrong one would set off other alarms. If U.N.C.L.E. knew of this satrap, he didn’t know about it. It sure wouldn’t be at all useful to THRUSH once Illya was done with it. He studied the layout of the place with the diagrams the guard had at his disposal. Carla said she worked in Building C, that appeared to be the place where everything happened, the surrounding buildings providing support. He was pleased to note that Building G, which was nearby but farther away from where he had cut the fence, was their ordnance storage. Very useful.

Searching the guard, he found that the man was roughly the same slender build, but was a bit taller. Quickly changing clothes, he donned the man’s uniform. It fit oddly, being a bit broader in the shoulders and longer of limb. It will have to do. Illya distributed the excess material to the back, folded the legs and sleeves up as best he could. He donned the beret the guards wore, being careful to place it as was per THRUSH dress standards. He wrapped the jacket he came in with around his shoulders, threw on the guard’s heavy winter coat over it. Then he relieved the man of his weapon, and dragged the body behind the desk and strode out into the frigid night headed for Building G.

Things were calm outside. He only passed one guard walking a very large german shepherd on a chain, the dog pausing to sniff his trousers. Not interested, the man and dog moved on. Illya had the hood up on his coat, as did the guard walking Fido. For all the heavy security of the place, there were relatively few people outside. Due to the weather, they may have all migrated indoors, or, being Americans, many may have opted to take the holiday week off. He didn’t know and didn’t care, he just needed them to stay out of his way. The entrance to the ordnance building was relatively sheltered, but locked, so he dug out the keys he appropriated and tried them until he found one that fit and entered, closing the door behind him. 

Illya looked around at all the toys and grinned for the first time in weeks. Explosives, detonators, timers, the works. _This must be what they refer to as Christmas_ , he thought, bringing up some half-remembered memory of his early childhood with his grandmother giving him a piece of bread because she said it was Christmas. It was food when there wasn’t any, so Christmas must be a good thing. _Well, ’tis the season_ , he noted as he found a sack in a bin and began carefully loading it up.  He started with the jacket he had wrapped around him under his THRUSH coat, he’ll need that for Napoleon. He worked to install detonators and timers on the charges he was collecting, working quickly because he wanted to have Napoleon out of there within the half hour. This had taken too long already.

Illya was satisfied that he had the supplies he needed. While he was at it, he loaded the pockets of the coat he appropriated from the guard with ammo for the THRUSH rifle he had as well as an extra magazine he loaded with ammo which he placed in the sack with the jacket and explosives. It will have to be enough. He found a spot at the back of one of the shelving units, set the timer on one of the charges for fifteen minutes and placed the explosive in the middle of a pile on one of the shelves. There would be a major boom that should shake buildings for a mile around and should cause enough of a diversion for him and Napoleon to get out of there unscathed.

He cracked the door and looked outside. Nobody in sight, so he casually exited and locked the door behind him, carrying his loaded sack towards building C where Napoleon was being held. _Hang in there, Napoleon, I’m coming._  

Illya entered building C. The first door he was able to open himself, but he needed to be buzzed into the inner door. He rang the buzzer and kept his head down from the camera, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. The guard saw his clothes and buzzed him in. 

He entered, and still keeping his head down, waved a thanks to the guard who admitted him and moved off to the right and headed down the corridor. He had ten minuted to find Napoleon and start getting him out of there. His whole existance had distilled down to the next half hour - find Napoleon, get him out of there, meet the extraction team, get Napoleon to safety. But first he needed to know where they were holding him. He made his way to the back of the building, away from the door he entered. He stopped, stretched and looked around. The building was warm and he felt himself beginning to perspire in the coat. He couldn’t afford to take it off because he was going to need it later and it was too cumbersome to carry along with his loaded sack.

Feeling like a demented Santa Claus, Illya found a janitor’s closet. Luckly the guard’s keys he grabbed had a master key.  Some of the jugs of cleaning solutions on the shelves were filled with flammable liquids. He reached into his bag, checked his watch, and set the timer and placed the explosive behind some jugs on a lower shelf, out of site of a casual search. 

He moved on then burst into a lab which was unoccupied, lights off. He again set the timer on an explosive and placed it behind some computer equipment. He checked his watch, time was growing short and he still didn’t know where Napoleon was being held. The corridors were relatively devoid of life for what was supposed to be a heavily-guarded satrap, he thought. _What, is everyone all on break?_

He planted several more charges around the building in various labs and janitor closets, thinking he didn’t even need the reindeer that people said were used before he found some poor, dark-skinned slob in a lab coat hurrying down the hall coming right for him. He dropped the bag then stepped into the man’s path, pointing his weapon at him. 

“YOU! Where are you coming from and where are you going?”

The dark-skinned man stopped, startled, “Who me? What business is it of yours, lackey, get out of my way!” He made to push his way past Illya, who shoved him against the wall, pushing his forearm into the man’s throat.

“Wrong answer. I repeat once more. Where are you coming from and where are you going? Consider your words carefully.”

“Who are you?” the man asked. “And why are you wearing your coat indoors?”

“I am from the main gate security shack, investigating a possible security breach,” Illya hissed at him. “I don’t know you. If you can’t answer my questions, then I can only assume you are the intruder.”

The man began to perspire, “I’m coming from the interrogation room. Doctor Ying wanted me to retrieve some equipment for him from lab twelve. Can I go now? He is not a patient man and I can’t be delayed.”

Illya grabbed the man’s coat and pushed him in the direction from which he came, “I need to talk to Doctor Ying, take me there.”

“Ok, ok! Geeze,” the man grumbled, leading the way. “It’s your ass when Doctor Ying doesn’t get his equipment. This U.N.C.L.E. agent is proving a tough nut to crack.”

As soon as the man’s back was turned, Illya grabbed the bag, noting he had one smaller charge left, the extra magazine, and the jacket, as planned.

The man stopped in front of a door and made to enter then stopped. He turned on Illya. “Wait a minute. I’ve never seen you here before, and it’s not called a ‘main gate security shack.’ Just who are you?”

Illya had found Napoleon and had run out of patience and time. He reached out and snapped the man’s neck. The man went down, but not before pressing a button on his watch, triggering an alarm. White lights turned red and the audible shrieked an alert. 

Guards came out of nowhere, their numbers growing by the second, scurrying around the building, mostly headed towards the main entrance, others taking up assigned positions in the corridors. He moved with them for a bit trying to blend in. One of the sharper knives in this drawer saw him and yelled out, “Kuryakin!” and raised his gun to fire.  Illya fired first and the man went down. Two others within earshot came running, guns raised. He dodged their fire and shot back, taking them down. Two men behind him rushed him, but Illya launched himself into the air feet first twisting his body, knocking one across the face with his foot as he latched on to the second man’s neck between his ankles and let gravity do the rest, taking him down when he fell.

Some of the guards had fled the area as others came boiling in as word spread. Wanting to conserve ammo, Illya fought them hand to hand, some of them almost being a match for him, but fell to Illya’s dirtier fighting technique. He stopped, catching his breath, now perspiring heavily under his coat. He checked his watch. It was time. 

The building shook from the ordnance building exploding, what Illya considered to be a very satisfying boom. Dodging gunfire, Illya fired off rounds of his own, wanting to dispatch these guards so he could get Napoleon out safely before the charges he set around the building went off. He grabbed the sack with the extra magazine, jacket, and charge in it and ran to the door that lab coat guy led him to.  He wedged the bomb between the knob and the frame and ducked around the corner for the explosion. It was a larger charge than he would have liked, he just hoped they didn’t have Napoleon too close to the door.

The door exploded, and Illya charged in. He found a guard and another man in white lab coat crumpled up in the corner and Napoleon strapped to a table, thankfully still alive. 

“TOOK you long enough,” Napoleon whispered weakly as Illya quickly unstrapped him from the table.

“I had to stop for a coat, it’s cold out,” he responded more calmly than he felt, hauling Napoleon over his shoulder with the sack he was carrying and hurrying from the room.

Napoleon held on as best he could, leaving one of Illya’s arms free to return the fire of the THRUSHies that were still standing. 

Illya navigated the corridors quickly, having memorized the layout of the place from his Santa Claus routine, “We’re almost out. We have to move quickly, this whole place is going to blow in two minutes.”

“Thass mah boy,” Napoleon mumbled weakly as he lost consciousness.

Illya ran, shooting THRUSHies as he passed them, nearly passing out from overheating. Once outside, he’ll be fine, just get Napoleon to the Camaro and they’re home free. The din from the shrieking alarm causing as much confusion among the ranks of THRUSH guards as anything. A few guards stepped in his way.

“He’s back there, near lab twelve. Get him!” Illya cried out and kept running, not looking back when the guards sprinted in the direction of lab twelve.

They reached the exit, and found that the guard wasn’t there to let them out. This time of night, people have to be buzzed out too, it seems. Cursing, Illya stepped back and shot out the glass on the door, then charged through with his precious cargo draped over his shoulder. 

He ran with Napoleon across the now floodlight lighted field, dodging sniper fire as he sprinted towards the fence. Two guards outside released the dogs they had on a lead. At a sharp order from their handlers, the giant canines sprinted towards Illya and Napoleon. He turned off the road and found the opening he had cut, putting Napoleon down and pushing him through, being careful he didn’t touch the metal then heaving himself through. The dogs had caught up with him, the lead dog latching onto the sack over Illya’s shoulder, shaking it out then turned his attentions to Illya as his fellow joined him. Illya grabbed the cut fence with the bolt cutters and dragged the edge to touch the dog with it. A high pitched yelp was heard as the dog convulsed and went down. The other dog, disliking the smell rising from his shocked companion hesitated. Illya glanced regrefully at the sack containing the jacket he would have to leave behind then half carried, half dragged his partner the quarter mile to the Camaro and deposited him in the passenger’s seat, then dove in to the driver’s seat and sped off out of town.

 

  


	4. Birds Are Hot on the Trail

“Napoleon. NAPOLEON! Can you hear me?” Illya called out urgently to his barely conscious partner. 

Napoleon moaned, raising his hands to rub his face, pulling bloody hands away. Illya chanced a glance over and saw blood flowing from his friend’s nose. He felt around the area between the bucket seats and found a box of tissues. He pulled out a handful and held them to Napoleon’s face. 

“Here, tilt your head back and hold this there. An extraction unit will be meeting us, I just have to find a safe place to hide you until they get here.”

Napoleon just moaned hoarsely, holding the tissue to his nose. He tried to speak, but could only croak. Illya drove like a madman when he spotted the headlights behind him. The engine whined in protest of the accelerator being held to the floor then sputtered and their speed diminished. Steam came pouring out from under the hood and the vehicle slowed to a stop. 

Fighting down his own panic and rage, Illya looked behind to see the headlights gaining on them. This car was going nowhere, letting him down when he needed it the most. As he bounded out of the car, Illya found himself wondering if the car wasn’t part of the cause of that couple’s suicide. He ran around the front of the car to haul Napoleon out and drag him into the woods. He was going to need to call the extraction team and it was going to take them some time to get to them from Edina. 

He pulled out his communicator, holding up his shivering partner and activated it. “Open channel C.”

“Larsen here,” came the immediate response. “Kuryakin? Are we a go?”

“You are a go. Use my communicator as a beacon, we’re just north of an industrial complex called Egret Industrial on the west side of Eden Prairie, in the woods. The birds are hot on our trail, so expect a hot landing.”

“We know the area, we’re on our way, hang tight.”

“Thank you. And by the way, I’m wearing a THRUSH uniform, please use care when shooting.”

“Shit, Illya. Anything else?”

“I have to hide Napoleon, he’s injured and is unable to assist in our defense. I’m going to try to hide him and hold off THRUSH until you get here. Please make haste. I’ll try to lower the top half of my uniform, I’m wearing a black turtleneck.”

 

***

 

Agent Larsen raised his arm in signal to the team that they are a go. Their helicopters were kept warmed up, but now they fired up for real. There were three choppers loaded with three U.N.C.L.E. agents each plus a larger bird carrying a medic and his assistants for carrying out the injured. He was glad Rogers ordered it, because from the sounds of things, they were going to need it.

He twiddled a dial on a panel on the console which displayed a radar like screen. As the engine sounds rose in pitch and they lifted off, he informed the team that he would be using Kuryakin’s communicator as a locator and to take care when shooting, as Kuryakin was wearing a THRUSH uniform.

The rescue unit rose and headed at top speed to the west to rescue their comrades.

Nash, Larsen’s pilot, spoke up once they had reached cruising altitude and were speeding in the direction of Illya’s communicator, “Did he say he was wearing a black turtleneck?”

“Yeah, why?” Laren asked, then stopped in realization. “He’s not going to have a coat??”

Nash shook his head, “There’s a blizzard on the way, it should reach them by the time we get there. If THRUSH doesn’t get them, they’re going to freeze to death.”

***

Illya half dragged, half carried his partner through the deepening snow in the forest. The falling snow wouldn’t cover their tracks fast enough to keep THRUSH from following their trail. He dragged the shivering Napoleon to a clearing that looked large enough to hold a helicopter or two. Looking around, he found a nearby outcropping that curved inward at its base. It will have to do.

He dug out the snow at the base of the outcropping and shoved Napoleon into it, removing his own coat and covering him with it. 

“This should help to keep you warm,” he assured his friend. “Hang in there help is on the way.”

He hurriedly tucked the coat about Napoleon, folding his friend’s fingers around the communicator, then began building a wall of snowballs in front of him.

The wind was rising and the snowfall increased, lowering visibility to less than ten feet. The blizzard Illya smelled coming earlier was here, confirmed when he felt the temperature drop precipitously.  He had the snow wall mostly completed when he heard vehicles on the road coming to a stop. THRUSH is here. 

Napoleon roused himself to see his flushed partner walling him in. Illya saw his eyes open and said “Help is on the way. This should keep you warm until the extraction unit gets here. I’m going to have to hold off the THRUSHies unil they arrive, just sit tight.”

“Are YOU ok?” Napoleon croaked, noting the snow and Illya’s lack of a coat.

“I’m fine,” he assured his friend. “But I hate being cold.”

Napoleon closed his eyes, “Always a whiner.”

“I need you to stay quiet. I’ll lead THRUSH away from you until the extraction unit gets here, but they can’t be allowed to find you. Do you understand?”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll keep moving, that will keep me warm. Now shut up and do what I say.”

“Bossy too,” he mumbled, nodding.

Illya quickly used a branch he had retrieved and swished it over the area where he scooped up the snow to cover the activity. He checked the ammo in his THRUSH rifle and saw that he had ten rounds left. The spare magazine he acquired from the ornance shed was gone, lost with the sack during flight through the fence. Damn dog. He had a number of rounds in his pocket that he had appropriated from the ordnance building, but without that extra magazine, it would take him too long to reload for them to do any good in a combat situation and he wouldn’t be given enough time to add to the rounds in his magazine from the ammo in the coat pocket.

Shaking his head, he continued to obscure the footprints to Napoleon’s hiding place then ran off across the clearing into the woods on the other side, hoping they’d take the bait. He was counting on the heavy snow and darkness to finish his work of obscuring Napoleon’s location. Flexing his fingers to hold off the frostbite, he circled around to one side of the clearing and lowered the top half of his THRUSH uniform as he waited. He was shivering, wishing he could have kept the sack away from that cussed beast at the fence.

He didn’t have to wait long before the THRUSH contingent waded cautiously into the area, six in all by Illya’s count, following their trail from the defunct Camaro. The lead combatant raised his arm and motioned the others to follow. They knew they had one that was mobile and another injured target. Word had spread that the mobile target was Kuryakin, so they were being extra cautious. 

Illya put down his rifle and packed a snowball, the older snow being wetter and more amenable to packing. He lobbed it overhead towards the other side of the clearing, away from Napoleon. The first two fired at it, Illya taking the opportunity to shoot the two while their backs were turned. He ducked and ran to another position and took aim. His hands were going numb, as were his toes and face, and he found himself praying for the first time since he was a child.

Three THRUSH soldiers peered through the infrared sights on their rifles, looking for Illya’s heat signature and fired. Sharp retorts of the gunfire pierced the wail of the howling wind. His body jerked from impact followed by sharp pain in his right shoulder told Illya that one of those bullets had found its target. He staggered slightly, but quickly recovered. Another shot rang out and ripped through his right arm. Looking through the sight of his rifle, he found the heat signatures and fired three times and watched them fall, then relocated himself to another part of the perimeter. He fired again at another glowing figure and watched him fall, then hurried back to his previous position.

Illya stopped for a moment and saw the blood flowing from the wounds in his shoulder and arm, knowing it would freeze shortly, if he didn’t freeze first. Painfully he raised the rifle to aim as another soldier fired. His body jerked as the bullet pierced his left lung. He was thrown back and fell, the rifle sinking into the snow at his side. The cold was getting to him. His clothes were moist from perspiring in the complex and offered no insulation from the freezing temperature and piercing wind. He laid there, listening for the helicopters and wondered if they would even get through in this weather.

It was a good plan. They almost made it. 

Through bleary eyes, Illya saw two THRUSHies approaching him following their infrared rifle sights, a third following. The third man had zeroed in on Napoleon’s position.  There must have been enough heat from the airspace of the snow wall Illya had built to give away his position. Illya rolled, ignoring the pain, and grabbed his rifle and fired twice at the two approaching him, then took out the one who was heading towards Napoleon as he whirled on him. 

Illya hauled himself to his feet as another set of headlights pulled up behind the vehicle that had contained the first set of soldiers and knew more was coming. He leaned against a tree, eyes scanning the sky for the lights of their rescue copters. 

Shots rang out as more men entered the clearing gunning for him. Illya staggered away from Napoleon’s location and fired blindly, being now unable to focus from hypothermia and blood loss.

Painfully, Illya forced himself to his knees and took careful aim. He fired once, twice. three times, then click. Three men down, four on their way in, taking aim. He didn’t hear the shots that pierced his abdomen and right leg. Illya fell again, consiousness fading, but Napoleon’s location was still in danger of being discovered, which galvanized him to pull himself to his feet. The only thought in Illya’s mind was delaying THRUSH from finding Napoleon until the rescue unit arrived. He was now almost completely numb from the cold with a roaring in his head as he staggered towards the THRUSH soldiers. The man closest to him gaped in shock, then laughed. 

“You’re done! Why don’t you go down, you son of a bitch?” 

Illya spat at him as the man raised his rifle and took aim at his face.

Illya’s vision was filled with a blinding white light and he knew no more.

 


	5. Heat Signatures

Nash and the other pilots in his team were hurrying at top speed towards Illya’s beacon. The blizzard slowed them down considerably making a ten minute flight into fifteen. They all knew they shouldn’t be in the air in this weather, but they were willing to chance it.

Larsen sounded the alert to the team, “We’re close, two minutes till contact.” 

“Roger” came the response from the rest of the team, rifles being brought to the ready.

If nothing else, the blizzard would obscure their approach from any attackers on the ground, so they could use that to their advantage. Pilots fought the wind as they held their course, their passengers arming themselves to provide cover for their comrades. They were right overhead of the signal and Larson signaled to Nash that he should drop lower. He used his own infrared sights and found some heat signatures. He saw a staggering body near the perimeter of the clearing and another raising his weapon to fire. Thinking quickly, Larson radioed “FLASH” to the team, pulled out a phosphorous bomb and dropped it, shielding his eyes against the bomb’s flash, illluminating the area in a blinding light.

The helicopter behind him saw the staggering body fall, but four still standing, rubbing their eyes. The passengers pulled out their own rifles and started shooting sleep darts, incapacitating the rest of the THRUSHies in the clearing and surrounding area. The helicopter behind him reported no more approaching vehicles and no more moving heat signatures, so Nash landed on one side of the clearing, leaving room for the medical evac copter to land next to him. 

Ducking the slowing blades over the helicopter, Larsen jumped out, joined quickly by the medic they had brought with them. He pointed to the perimeter and the two men hurried over and found the prone body with the black turtleneck and shaggy blond hair.

“Kuryakin,” Larsen whispered. 

Tanaka, the medic, felt for a pulse, then carefully turned the bleeding, half frozen body over. He looked up at Larsen, “He’s alive!”

Tanaka waved to his assistant to bring a stretcher. The two men lifted the wounded agent onto the stretcher, covering him, then hauling him to the medical craft. 

“Where’s Solo?” Larsen asked, looking around. He saw no sign of Napoleon, just snow and blood that was quickly being covered over by the falling snow. Illya did say he was going to hide him, but was in no condition to tell them where.

He picked up one of the THRUSH rifles and scanned the area through it’s infrared sights and found a warm spot at the other end of the clearing that wasn’t associated with a downed THRUSH. He looked up and noted the position. 

“Tanaka!” he yelled out. “I think I found Solo!”

Tanaka’s assistant continued working on Illya as the medic jumped out of the helicopter and followed Larsen’s lead to… a pile of snow. He looked quizzically at Larsen, who put down the rifle and started digging. It took less than a minute for his hands to break through the thin snowball wall into the cave that it had formed. Warmth wafted out at them briefly to reveal a semiconsious Napoleon hidden there holding Illya’s communicator with a coat over him.

“Illya…” was all he could say. Tanaka called for another stretcher, his pilot bringing it out since the medic’s assistant was busy with Illya. 

They loaded the weakly struggling Napoleon onto the stretcher. “Illya,” Napoleon said again.

“He’s in the medic’s chopper, where you’re going,” Larsen told him. “We’re taking you guys to the hospital, just relax.”

Napoleon moaned weakly as they secured his stretcher near Illya’s. Tanaka joined him as his pilot closed the door behind him. 

Their work done, the helicopters rose, Tanaka’s pilot radioing the nearest hospital that they had two patients, one in serious condition and the other critical, having multiple gunshot wounds and the beginnings of frostbite.

Larsen informed the other pilots that they have retrieved their agents and that they were to return to Edina.  Sighing, he opened channel D.

 

***

 

Waverly sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, more tired than he had been in a long time. He had listened gravely to Larsen’s report. It was supposed to be a simple affair. Pick up a young woman from Minneapolis and bring her back to New York. But Solo had to accomodate the youg lady, even if it was against his better judgement. He was thinking it was a good thing he had allowed Kuryakin to accompany him or they’d have lost Solo, the girl, and the information she was carrying.

Kuryakin said one of his few weaknesses was his devotion to duty, but over the years that he had known the young men, Waverly determined that his devotion to Solo was even stronger. He knew that was reciprocated too and that if he was to lose one, he’d no doubt lose the other as well.

He leaned forward and called for Miss Rogers. She entered almost immediately carrying a folder, looking every bit as sharp and put together as she does when she shows up for work in the morning, he didn’t know how she does it.

“Miss Rogers. That was very good thinking, sending the medical helicopter along with the extraction unit equipped as you did. Stellar job, as usual.”

“Thank you sir,” she responded seriously.

“You can take the rest of the day off, you’ve earned it. Thank you for being here all night, it would have been a struggle without you and the outcome would have been worse. I am going to ask one more thing from you before you go…”

Lisa approached him and opened the folder she was carrying, presenting the contents, “One plane ticket to Minneapolis, sir. One way. You depart LaGuardia in two hours, that’s the earliest flight out. Let us know when you are ready to return. Here is a reservation for you for one week at the Crowne Plaza. It’s fairly near the hospital where they’ve taken Solo and Kuryakin. Will there be anything else, sir?”

Smiling, Waverly shook his head in wonder. “You had a date last night, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “This was more important. We’ve rescheduled for tonight, it’s fine.”

Waverly rose from his seat and stretched, suppressing a sudden urge to hug her. “Very good. You may take off now. Rest up for tonight.” 

Lisa smiled, “Thank you sir. Give my best to Solo and Kuryakin.” She turned to go.

“I shall,” Waverly responded. 

 

***

 

Eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight streaming in through the window, Napoleon raised an arm and covered his eyes against the assault. He ached all over, his head was pounding and his mouth tasted like he had eaten old gym shoes. He was still breathing though, which he considered a good thing. He groaned.

“Feeling better, Mister Solo?”

The familiar voice jolted him fully awake. He lowered his arm and blinked at his boss, standing on the left by the bed. “Mister Waverly. What time is it? How long have you been here?” he asked hoarsely.

“It is now ten o’clock in the morning. I’ve been here for roughly an hour. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been wrestling bear,” Napoleon said weakly, closing his eyes. Eyes flew open in alarm. He looked wildly about for another occupied bed, but he was in a private room. 

“Where’s Illya?” he asked frantically. Illya must be hurt, otherwise he would be there.

“What do you remember from last night?” Waverly asked him.

“I was being interrogated,” he started, rubbing his eyes. “I remember hearing them say Illya and Miss DeStephano were dead. Ummmm, explosions… I think. The interrogator, a man named Ying was suddenly terrified. Then I was in a car, then…. gunfire” Napoleon pressed his palms against his eyes. 

“Where’s Illya? Is he dead?” Napoleon rubbed his face, despair written all over it.

“Mister Kuryakin is still in surgery,” Waverly informed him soberly. “It’s been several hours, he suffered numerous gunshot wounds and lost a lot of blood. Hypothermia and frostbite are complications, but the doctors are dealing with everything right now. I have asked the Emergency staff to keep me appraised of his condition. I will ensure you are similarly notified.”

Napoleon listened, eyes closed. He tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. He heaved a ragged sigh, “Thank you sir,” he said shortly.

“I suppose I should let you rest. As soon as you gentlemen are able to be moved, we will have you both transferred to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. Unless you’ve recovered by then, in which case, you will go home.”

Wavery looked at his agent who was swallowing hard, “But I expect you will be spending more time at the hospital with Mister Kuryakin than in your own apartment.”

Napoleon cleared his throat, “Feeling optimistic, sir?”

“Aren’t I always?”

 

***

 

Illya was out of surgery and placed in the intensive care unit for close monitoring. The surgeon, Doctor Howard, didn’t want to talk to Waverly, stating he wasn’t family. Waverly convinced him that U.N.C.L.E. was the only family Illya had. He explained that Illya was Ukrainian and that he was the only known survivor from his family. U.N.C.L.E. was responsible for him, not only as his employer but in maintaining his visa to even stay in the United States. He asked the doctor if he would prefer to talk to the Soviets instead. The doctor passed on that offer.

“So U.N.C.L.E. is his only family then. And you’re the boss, right? I suppose that makes you his father,” the doctor told him.

“In a manner of speaking, you could say that. Yes,” Waverly responded, ignoring the man’s impertinence. 

“All right, then. Mister Kuryakin was shot five times, three of the bullets were through and throughs and managed to miss major arteries. The other two were removed successfully, but we have to watch his one lung. It collapsed twice during surgery and we almost lost him.”

Waverly closed his eyes briefly and nodded.

“It’s still touch and go with him. The hypothermia didn’t help matters at all, but we’re supporting him and it shouldn’t be an issue as time goes on. He has some frostbite on his extremities, but by all accounts, if he pulls through, he should regain full use of his hands and feet.”

“What is his prognosis? Or is it too early to tell?”

“It’s early, but I’m cautiously optimistic. He’s young and he’s strong. In fact, he’s probably the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever had on my table. Ukraine, huh?” 

“Yes. Kiev in fact.”

“I was in Kiev briefly, back during the war, after the Red Army liberated it from the Nazis,” the doctor recalled thoughtfully. “Medical doctors were needed and a few of us were allowed in.” He rubbed his forehead at the memory. “It was an epic disaster. The entire city was destroyed, people dead or dying. Those who survived the occupation were starving. I didn’t see many children in the city when I was there, but if he was in Kiev during those years, then he absolutely IS the toughest son of a bitch to grace my table.”

“He is indeed. He was brought in with a fellow agent of mine, a Mister Solo. Mister Kuryakin sustained his injuries protecting Mister Solo until help could arrive. I promised Mister Solo that I would keep him appraised of Mister Kuryakin’s condition. They’re very close. Like brothers, in fact.”

His meeting with the surgeon concluded, Waverly headed up to Napoleon’s room to provide the promised update. Napoleon was sitting up in bed, gazing out the window, the untouched tray of food on the rolling table over his lap. 

“What’s the news?” he asked anxiously.

Waverly repeated what the doctor told him and patted his arm urging him to try to remain hopeful. Encouraging Napoleon to eat, Waverly declared he needed to call into a meeting to discuss an ongoing investigation. He had discovered that Miss Rogers was sending him reports that were coming in from the field as well as operational reports within headquarters. Many of them contained her notes on what she had done to handle them. _I told her to go home, does she ever sleep?_ he wondered.

Napoleon tried to watch television to pass the time. Daytime television was not to his liking, although he found himself drawn into the story they were telling on General Hospital. He didn’t know who these people were, but he had spent so much time in hospitals between his own and his partner’s injuries that he could almost recite by heart the procedures in the operations of the places.

His head was pounding but he felt well otherwise. _I just need a couple aspirins, that’s all,_ he thought to himself. Still, they were insisting he stay, so he might as well relax as best he could. He kept going over in his mind his first meeting with Carla and her insistance on going to that damned cocktail party. He agreed to let her go, and nearly got himself and Illya killed as well as the girl. Thanks to Illya, the assignment was a success and everyone came out of it alive. He laid back down and closed his eyes, his dinner untouched on the portable table which he had pushed aside. _I need to see Illya_ , was his last thought before he dozed off. 

 

***

 

The light shining from the windows into the room woke him up. It wasn’t sunny, but a bright, overcast day that looked to be threatening snow. Again. Napoleon checked his watch, it was nearly noon! He groaned and rolled over, feeling more hung over than anything else. Waverly had left the phone number of the hotel where he was staying, so Napoleon picked up the phone in his room and dialed the number, asking for Waverly’s room. There was no answer. He sighed and hung up. Breakfast had been brought in, the tray full of now cold scrambled eggs and toast was sitting on the table next to his bed. 

The food service crew came in to collect the trays from the rooms, Napoleon receiving a sour look from the kid who collected the tray of uneaten food. Napoleon looked back at him and shrugged. Lunch was brought about an hour later. Napoleon raised the cover from the plate, it was some kind of sandwich. He lifted a corner of the bread and wrinkled his nose, pushing the tray away from him. He didn’t want the fruit salad OR the pudding. He did drink the coffee and found it to be insipid, but he didn’t want to sleep all day. He hoped it wasn’t decaf. 

Another day filled with daytime TV and no word on Illya’s condition. He had had enough. 

It was late afternoon. Switching off the television, he found the robe and slippers that had been provided for him. Donning both, he ignored the headache that flared up again, got up and strolled into the corridor and headed to the nurse’s station. 

“Mister Solo, you should be in bed,” the nurse at the desk scolded.

“I know I know,” he answered. “Just need to stretch my legs, you know?” He turned on his most charming smile.

It had the desired effect, Napoleon noted with satisfaction. The nurse blushed. _I’ve still got it._

“Is there a map of the hospital? Something that I can look at to see where I am in relation to everything else? I’ve always been interested in buildings like this and their layouts fascinate me.”

The nurse smiled back at the smiling, charming man in front of her. Unfortunately the only thing she had for him was the floor directory. Napoleon indicated that would be acceptable. She handed him a pamphlet that had all the information that she could give him. He thanked her profusely and shuffled back in the direction of his room, scanning the contents of the pamphlet. He found what he was looking for - the Intensive Care Unit was up on the eighth floor. Once there, the signage should be sufficient to show him where he needed to go.

Checking over his shoulder, he saw the nurse on the telephone, looking through a large notebook discussing God knows what with the person on the other end. Looking straight ahead, Napoleon walked purposefully past the nurse’s desk towards the elevators and pressed the button. He stepped out of the way when the doors opened to allow the car’s occupants to exit, then he hurried in and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

The doors opened and he stepped out. There were a few people deep in conversation outside a doorway on his right, the sign said it was a family room. On his left, about twenty feet down the hall was a double swinging door that was labeled “Intensive Care.” He peered through the window on one of the doors to try to locate Illya and found him in one of the beds on the left. A nurse was bending over him, checking his vitals and making notes. A woman standing behind a hurse’s station in the room to the right saw him and stormed over to tell him he needs to wait in the family room. She stopped suddenly when she saw he was dressed in a bathrobe over hospital gown and slippers. She grabbed his wrist and read the name off his band.

“Mister Solo, you are a patient here. You should be in bed. Return to your room immediately.”

“Yes, I will I will. I just came up to check on my ah, brother. Illya Kuryakin. May I ask how he’s doing?”

“He’s in intensive care, that’s how he’s doing,” she replied, peeved at his presence. “And I can’t discuss his condition to anyone who is not immediate family. I don’t for one second believe that he is your brother, now come along.”

“He is, I swear,” Napoleon stood rooted to the spot. The smaller nurse who he guessed was the supervisor wasn’t large enough to move him when he didn’t want to be moved. “We’re orphans. We were adopted as small children by my uncle. He raised us together, so that makes him my brother.”

The nurse folded her arms, “I don’t suppose you can prove that.”

“Who carries adoption records with them, especially after thirty years? And away from home.” Napoleon retorted, smiling, resorting to charm. 

The nurse was not impressed. She sighed, “Go wait in the family room then. I can’t authorize you to enter so I’ll have to check with his doctor. Don’t get your hopes up.”

She returned to the ward and looked in on Illya. She checked his chart then returned to the desk to make a call. Doctor Howard picked up on the third ring

“Doctor Howard, this is nurse Zaenglein in ICU. There is a man here, a Napoleon Solo, who wants to visit Mister Kuryakin.” She snorted, “he’s a patient here and he says that he and Mister Kuryakin are brothers. Adopted brothers. By his uncle. I can’t authorize him to visit, which is why I’m calling you.”

Doctor Howard remembered hearing Napoleon’s name in his conversation with Mister Waverly. The two men were U.N.C.L.E. agents, Waverly almost admitting he was a father figure even if he was their boss. And Kuryakin was injured while protecting Solo. He didn’t have to think too long.

“What is Kuryakin’s condition right now?”

“There’s been a slight decline, doctor. He’s hanging on, but there’s a chance he’s weakening. The current trend is a very slow, steady decline. If this keeps up we’re going to lose him.”

“I see,” the doctor said. He was hoping to see some improvement by now, even just a little. This was news he didn’t want to hear. “Let him in. Kuryakin has no biological family and the two men ARE like brothers. I spoke with their uncle-slash-adoptive father yesterday and he filled me in on them. Even just hearing Mister Solo’s voice may do him good. We have to try it.”

The nurse hung up and strode down to the family room where Napoleon was sitting, a nurse from the third floor arguing with him trying to get him back to bed. Napoleon would not be moved.

“I feel fine,” he was saying. 

“You won’t STAY fine unless you get back into bed and eat something. You haven’t touched any of the meals we’ve brought you the last two days, how do you expect to heal when you do this? You’re going to make us force feed you.”

Napoleon grinned up at her, “I might enjoy that.”

“You need rest!”

Napoleon spread his hands, seated in an easy chair in the family room, “I’m resting.”

Giggles were heard from family members awaiting their time to visit loved ones in the unit. They were curious about the man dressed like a patient who argued with the head nurse. Now another nurse was arguing with him. Napoleon was proving to be an amusing distraction from the constant waiting and worrying.

The ICU nurse called over Napoleon’s nurse to hold a brief, heated conversation in the hall. The two of them re-entered the room.

“Mister Solo, Mister Kuryakin’s doctor has authorized you to visit. You get ten minutes out of each hour, no visitors after eight PM. Got it?”

“Got it,” Napoleon agreed, relieved.

“In exchange,” continued the nurse from his floor, “You will eat the food we bring to you and won’t exert yourself. We will provide a wheelchair for your use if you will swear to confine your travels to between your room and the ICU.”

“I have nowhere else I want to go,” responded Napoleon, relieved.

The two nurses nodded to each other, Napoleon’s floor nurse moved to go. A portly man appearing to be in his late fifties arrived carrying paper bags, declaring dinner is served. Before Napoleon had arrived on the floor, the families had pooled their funds to buy dinner to be brought up to the family room. The man divvied up the sandwiches he had brought, holding one out to Napoleon. He thanked the man, and, looking archly at his nurse, unwrapped it and took a bite. He hated tuna fish, but if it would keep the nurse off his back and let him see his friend, then he would eat it.

The ICU supervisor sat in an empty seat next to Napoleon while he ate his sandich. “In twenty minutes, you can go in and see him. He’s comatose, so he won’t be able to talk to you and he probably won’t respond to you. Just talk to him. Even when unconscious, he can still hear you. Do you understand?”

Napoleon swallowed hard, “I understand. How’s he doing?”

The head nurse just smiled faintly and patted him on the arm, “We are hoping his hearing your voice will help.”

She got up and returned to her post in the ICU. Napoleon sat holding his half-eaten sandwich with a mouth full of bread and tuna salad wondering what that meant. He noticed that the low murmer of conversation between the families awaiting their minutes with their family members had stopped. He saw them looking at him sympathetically.

“Excuse me, Mister Solo?” a fifty-ish woman spoke up. I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but we’re all in this together. My name is Mary. If you need anything, anything at all, please let us know, ok?”

Napoleon nodded, “Ok.”

“I’m Joe. So who are you here to see?” asked portly man, who appared to be Mary’s husband.

Napoleon looked straight ahead, then down at his hands, “Illya Kuryakin.”

A younger woman looked to the man with her, quizzically. “The kid who was shot. The blond,” he told her. He looked to Napoleon, “Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” he answered, suddenly not wanting to talk about him to them.

In the twenty minutes waiting for time to visit with Illya, Napoleon learned that the couple in their fifites, Joe and Mary, were visiting their daughter who was critically injured in a terrible car accident. The younger couple, Mark and Laura, were visiting his father who had had a stroke. Another couple were there to see her elderly mother who had fallen down the stairs in her home and broke her neck.

It was time. Everyone rose to file into the room, the other families now veterans of the process. Napoleon made a beeline to Illya’s bed and gazed down at his friend. Illya was pale, his skin almost transluscent. He appeared to Napoleon to be a waxwork figure, not yet colored to human flesh tone. There were hoses and tubes connecting to his limbs and a breathing tube in his mouth. The rhythmic hiss from the machine that was breathing for him and the beep beep beep of the heart monitor were the only sounds in his immediate vicinity.

Napoleon laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The skin was cool to the touch. 

“Illya,” he started, then cleared his throat. “It’s Napoleon. Of course it is, who else would it be, right? I’m here. I’m here and I’m not leaving you. I aahhh don’t know if you know this, but Clara DeStephano made it safely to New York, thanks to you. She’s staying in a guest quarters at headquarters. April picked her up at the airport as planned. 

I’m safe too. You did it, you held THRUSH off until help arrived. They brought us both to the hospital. I’m feeling fine, but you need to hold on. I need you Illya, and I need to hear your voice. Insult me, anything. Just hang on and don’t leave me, ok? You’re my right arm, I can’t do it without you. Ti - moya pravaya ruka. Ya ne spravlus' bez tebya.”

Napoleon talked for the ten minutes he was there, he kept repeating the Russian, “Ti - moya pravaya ruka. Ya ne spravlus' bez tebya - you are my right hand. I can’t do it without you.”

He still had his hand on Illya’s shoulder, repeating the Russian when he felt a gentle hand on his elbow. He looked and saw that it was Mary. They were being chased out, their ten minutes were up. Now back to the family room for fifty more minutes before they could go back. She gazed at the pale, bandaged Illya on the breathing machine and gave Napoleon’s arm a squeeze. 

Back in the family room, Napoleon waited. The other families had been there for days he learned, and were sharing stories of their loved ones and how they came to be there. Napoleon rubbed his temples. It was starting to sound like a wake, like talking about the deceased and reliving fond memories. He was not ready to do that with Illya and resisted their urgings to share. 

 

***

 

The next morning, His nurse arrived at the same time as his breakfast. He had just come out of the bathroom from washing his face and brushing his teeth.  He smiled at her and climbed back into bed as the tray was placed on the portable table then it was moved to place it over his lap. He raised the cover to reveal the two slices of french toast, a strip of bacon, the ever present cup of fruit salad, orange juice and insipid coffee. 

“Yum yum!” he declared, digging into the french toast. At least that’s what they told him it was. He didn’t care, he just needed to eat it. He made a point of cleaning his plate and fruit cup, draining his juice and coffee. 

His nurse waited until he finished eating before taking his vitals and noting them in her chart. “Well, we found something to motivate you to eat,” she said, smiling.

“Your smile! And a lovely smile it is, too,” Napoleon grinned.

She shook her head and took his temperature, pulse and blood pressure, making notes in his chart.

“I ate my breakfast, you’re going to let me up to ICU to visit Illya, right?”

“Of course. A deal’s a deal.”

“Yes it is. I can go up in a half hour.”

“You can actually go up at any time now. The staff will inform you of when you can go in to see your friend - yes I know he’s not actually your brother. It’s ok.”

Napoleon went serious. “No. He is. Actually my brother. Not by blood or adoption, but if there was a man you can count on and trust and cherish, whether he’s related by blood or not, he’s your brother. Understand?”

His nurse’s smile grew warmer. “I do understand.”

“And don’t you DARE tell him I said that!”

She laughed at that, promising not to breathe a word of it.

Napoleon parked himself in the wheelchair provided and was wheeled to the elevator by an orderly. He asked if he was going to need to be wheeled from family room to the ICU and was told no, this limo only took him from his room to the family room then back again.

 After three days of no response from Illya, Napoleon was judged to be well enough to go home. Waverly took that as an indication that he should return to New York, handing over his room to his chief enforcement agent. Within hours of his release from the hospital, as he was settling in at the hotel, the porter delivered a suitcase filled with underwear, pajamas and casual clothes, and three clothing bags with his suits and dress shirts. Napoleon approved of the ties that were sent and he knew Lisa was responsible. He dressed and made the trek back to the hospital.

 

***

 

Feeling much more himself now that he was in his own clothes, Napoleon spent the rest of the day in the family room with the families, even pitching in to have food brought up. It was late and time for the last visit of the day. He trouped in with the rest of the familes and took up his position at Illya’s bedside. He brushed his friend’s hair off his forehead being careful to avoid the cut at his hairline and talked, “Ti - moya pravaya ruka. Ya ne spravlus' bez tebya.”

He saw a flicker under Illya’s lids when he said it. He leaned in, “Illya. Ti menya slishish’?"

No response. 

Napoleon sighed. This would be the last visit he would be allowed to make until morning. He wanted something. ANYTHING. The eyelid flicker would have to do. He obviously didn’t expect Illya to open his eyes, sit up and start talking to him. He still didn’t know his specific condition or if he was improving or not, which was frustrating. Waverly was supposed to be keeping tabs on him, but still he had nothing to report. As family members were leaving the unit, Napoleon turned back to Illya one last time, “I’ll be back in the morning. You rest up, you’re going to need it because you’re going to have to listen to me again in the morning. Dobroi nochi.”

 

***

 

This ritual was repeated for two more days. Endless waiting for the precious ten minutes spent with critically injured loved ones. Families came and went as the patients came and went, either well enough to be sent down to a room or…

Occasionally he would stop over to one of the other patients in the unit, offering support for the families, just like they were doing for him by stopping over to see Illya. Joe and Mary introduced Napoleon to their daughter Janet. She looked like a pretty girl, but her face was badly banged up and heavily bandaged. The strength and dignity of the families he spent his time with took him out of his own pain, which helped him to return the support they offered him.

 

***

 

Napoleon found that he was now going as much to visit with the families as he was to see Illya. He hadn’t gotten any response from his friend since the eye flicker two days ago and his concern was growing that Illya wasn’t going to come out of it. The nurses were no help in sharing his condition and neither was Doctor Howard. Napoleon was allowed to visit, but wasn’t deemed close enough of a relative to receive updates on his condition, beyond what he could see. It was the end of another day of visiting by now, Napoleon mixing English with the Russian when talking to his partner.

Reluctantly, he followed the family members out of the unit at the end of their last ten minute visit of the day. They were headed to the family room to collect coats, purses and leftovers to go back to their homes or hotels, only to come back and do it again tomorrow. Napoleon knew he’d be here with them. He grabbed his coat, said his goodnights and “see you tomorrow.” He headed to the elevator and pushed the button, waiting for his ride downstairs so he could go back to the hotel and pour himself a stiff drink. The portly man, Joe, joined him, having followed him from the unit.

“Excuse me, son,” Joe said.

Napoleon turned to look at him, hands in pockets, “Hi Joe, what’s up?”

“Was that… Russian? You were speaking in there?”

“Yes. Yes it was. Why?”

Joe hemmed and hawed a bit, scratching his nose, then glanced back towards the family room where his wife was collecting her things. “Ummm. No reason,” he mumbled. Then the words came tumbling out, “I’ve just… I’ve just never seen a real live Russian before, you know?” He saw Napoleon’s look. “I mean… aahhh. I dunno. The only Russians I’ve ever seen are the leaders. On tv. You know? They threaten us and the free world. Sorry, I don’t mean to offend. I guess I’m just being ignorant - and curious!” he added quickly.

Napoleon understood. He nodded. “Illya was wounded while protecting me,” he told him. “That’s why he’s here. Some bad people were after us. I was injured, he called for backup, and he kept me safe and warm in the woods until they got there. The only reason I’m alive now is because of him. He saved my life. I’ve saved his life. He’s a good man, the best and one of the most massively talented individual I’ve ever met.”

Joe’s brown eyes widened and misted over. He looked down at his shoes then back up at Napoleon. “Then I guess there IS hope for this world. I hope your friend makes it. My wife and I, we’ll remember him in our prayers.” 

Napoleon shook the man’s outstretched hand and thanked him warmly, then stepped into the elevator that had just arrived. 

 

***

 

It was midnight and the nurses conducted their every ten minute check on their patients’ conditions. Janet, the teenaged girl in the car accident, didn’t make it. The crash cart that was rushed over from its nearby perch failed to revive her. The unit’s doctors contacted her doctor who had the unenviable task of notifying her parents.

Illya’s nurse checked his vitals then checked them again. She made the notation in her chart.  

Everyone else was stable. 

The nurses reported back to the nurse’s station to notify the supervisory nurse of the changes.

Napoleon was late arriving at the hospital due to an accident that snarled traffic for miles. Riding the elevator up to the Intensive Care unit, he steeled himself for another day of talking to his unresponsive parther. Napoleon said his good mornings as he laid his coat over the back of the chair that had been his temporary home for the past four days and looked around and noticed Joe and Mary weren’t there. The others in the room were grim. 

“What happened?” Napoleon asked not wanting to know the answer.

“Janet didn’t make it,” stated the younger man, Mark. “She passed last night around midnight.”

“Mary called me and told me,” Laura said, not looking at him. She had her eyes closed, just fingering her rosary beads. 

Napoleon remembered Joe and Mary’s kindness and concern and closed his own eyes in grief. He didn’t know the girl, but he was feeling their loss. He opened his eyes, suddenly fearful of what he would find when he visited Illya and now dreading a middle of the night phone call.

It was time. Napoleon followed the subdued family members in to the ICU, Napoleon heading to his left to reach Illya’s bed. He noted Illya’s color seemed better, and that the breathing machine was removed from his bedside, and from his throat. Illya’s breathing was shallow, but regular. Best yet, he was breathing on his own!

Napoleon turned to look at the head nurse, who was watching him, smiling. Turning back to Illya, he pushed Illya’s hair from the side of his face back to behind his ear, as he chose to wear it and said, “Dobroye utro. I’m back. Miss me?”

“Daaaa.”

Napoleon drew his hand back in surprise. “Illya?”

The several seconds passed like an eternity, then a raspy voice, “No i ti - moya pravaya ruka. [no, you are my right hand]”

He grinned. After his years of living in the United States, Napoleon wasn’t sure if his friend was still thinking in Russian or if he had switched over to thinking in English. He had his answer.  Illya still hadn’t opened his eyes, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

Napoleon delightedly continued talking to Illya in Russian, the smile on his friend’s face widening a bit, occasionally nodding slightly, trying to open his eyes but mostly failing. Napoleon was suddenly aware of a presence behind him and turned to see an older man wearing a white coat with a name tag that said “Howard.”

He nodded to Napoleon as he picked up Illya’s chart, examining the notations there. He replaced the chart and stuck out his hand, “You must be Napoleon Solo. I’m Doctor Kevin Howard, Illya’s doctor. I’ve heard about you, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“I’m pleased to meet you too, doctor. How much longer does Illya need to stay here?”

Doctor Howard smiled. “I want to give him till this afternoon. If he continues to improve like he has, he should be in a normal room by tonight. He’s got a long road ahead of him, but if he keeps on the way he is, he should make a full recovery.” 

Howard clapped Napoleon on the shoulder, nodding his thanks, then shoved his hands in his pockets and left the room.

“Hear that, Illya? You’re going to get out of here. I can’t wait,” he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “The nurses here are immune to my charms, I think we’re in the Twilight Zone.”

Napoleon could swear he heard a snort.


	6. An Impossible Decision

It wasn’t that evening but the next day that Illya was moved to a normal room, his doctor being extra cautious. Another private room, Napoleon noted. U.N.C.L.E. must have been paying a lot of money for these rooms and Napoleon made a note to thank Mister Waverly. 

Showered, shaved and dressed in a dark blue suit, Napoleon was in his hotel room’s bathroom, fussing with his hair, getting the part just right and straightening his striped tie and checking the lines of his pants, making everything perfect. There was a knock at the door. He took one more look, cocking his head this way and that to check his hair at all angles, then opened the door. 

To his surprise, Waverly was there, smirking at him, his coat over his arm. The perfection of Napoleon’s appearance didn’t escape his notice. “I take it you are feeling quite yourself again,” he said with some amusement.

Napoleon gaped in surprise, “Sir! I wasn’t expecting you back, I thought you were in New York.

“I am on my way to our San Francisco office and have arranged for a lengthy layover in Minneapolis. I took the liberty of hiring a taxi and thought I’d join you at the hospital to visit Mister Kuryakin, now that he’s been released from Intensive Care. I’m not spoiling any plans I hope.”

“No, no not at all,” Napoleon replied, smoothing his hand down the front of his suit as he stepped back to admit his boss.

“I wanted to speak with you anway,” Waverly stated as Napoleon grabbed his coat, shrugging it on and buttoning it down. “You have the use of this room for one more day. Doctor Howard expects Mister Kuryakin will be able to be moved to Mount Sinai in Manhattan then. I suppose you’ll be wanting to accompany him.”

“I would sir, thank you.”

The two men left for the hospital, arriving at lunch time. Waverly spoke as Napoleon drove and told him of his conversations with Doctor Howard, who HAD been updating him on Illya’s condition. He told him about Illya’s slow but steady decline, which prompted the unit to allow his visits. It was a good thing too, as his decline stopped, then he stabilized and improved steadily since he started visiting. 

“Looks like you two young men should be even now, he saves your life, you save his.”

Napoleon recovered from the shock of the news his boss had just given him, “I think he still owes me a couple,” which drew a chuckle from Waverly.

As they entered the fourth floor room, Illya was in his bed, right arm in a sling, attempting to load a forkful of peas into his mouth with his left hand, only to see them roll off back onto the plate, the tray, and all over his lap. He tossed the fork down on the tray in disgust. He was incensed that they would try to feed something like peas to someone who could barely wield a utensil. He didn’t want the damned peas anyway.

“Good morning, sunshine!” came the cheerful greeting from his partner. 

Waverly wished him a good day, removing his hat. “You’re looking fit. We were afraid we were going to lose you for a while there,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Illya greeted them with a smile, then rested his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. “I’ve been better.” He opened his eyes and glanced at his boss and his partner, “I’ve been worse.”

“Indeed you have,” Waverly agreed, placing his hat and coat on the chair near Illya’s bed. “Your doctor informed me that they nearly lost you twice during your surgery. Your condition was steadily deteriorating until Mister Solo started visiting you in the Intensive Care Unit. You certainly HAVE been worse.”

“What’s for lunch?” Napoleon asked, checking out Illya’s tray. “Peas?”

“Peas,” agreed Illya, sullenly. Napoleon made a face. 

“Did they try to inflict the ‘french toast’ on you yet?”

“Not yet,” Illya said with some alarm. “Is it too late to ask someone to shoot me now?”

“That is not at all amusing, Mister Kuryakin,” Waverly scolded severely.

“Sorry,” said Illya, chasened, glancing up at Napoleon, who made a ‘yeah, forget about it’ face.

Waverly studied Illya, then Napoleon, and decided that things will return to normal. He put his hat on, knowing the bickering was soon to begin, which would confirm to his mind that the world was as it should be.

He said his goodbyes, see you in New York and I’m happy you are recovering and left his two top agents alone.

Napoleon leaned in to Illya and whispered, “To bad you’re not on the third floor, the nurses there are prettier.”

 

***

 

Carla DeStephano was seated in Waverly’s office twiddling her thumbs. She’d been there for weeks and was still not allowed to leave, all attempts to sneak out had been thwarted by that Lisa Rogers creature who was everywhere. Who IS this person, anyway? Is she even human?

 Carla had given them all the information they demanded of her and she still had to stay. She missed the holidays with her family, lost her apartment and her job. She couldn’t believe the bill collectors weren’t trying to contact her for missed payments.

The old man was talking, but she barely noticed. “Miss DeStephano, have you heard a word I’ve said?” he asked with exasperation, leaning back in his seat. She sighed.

“I’m sorry,” she said sullenly. 

“Miss DeStephano, you did the right thing in bringing this device to U.N.C.L.E. Be assured it will be put to benign use if it’s put to use at all. Had this been left to THRUSH, there would have been chaos and millions of people will have been killed because of it. We are grateful for your actions in this regard. You need to understand that should they discover you are alive, they will not stop looking for you, so you must assume this new identity or they will find you and kill you. If not you then your family. If you don’t care about your own life, think of your loved ones.”

She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to give up her life, but she didn’t want her family to die either. It was an impossible situation and she was torn by the decision she was being forced to make.

Waverly didn’t want to consider her a lost cause just yet. He hoped that what he had planned would help persuade her to accept the identity U.N.C.L.E. had created for her and live her life in peace. He couldn’t force her, she would have to agree to it.

The door to his office hissed open to admit his two top agents, Napoleon pushing Illya in a wheelchair. Carla rose, delighted to see Napoleon, but suddenly scowled at the sight of the black-clad, blond Russian in the wheelchair. He had a healing cut on his forehead, his arm was in a sling. The fact he was in a wheelchair hinted at injuries that weren’t visible to her. She slumped back in her seat, chastened.

“You remember my agents, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin?” Waverly asked her, meeting Napoleon’s eye. Napoleon nodded.

“Miss DeStephano,” said Napoleon and Illya.

The agents had been briefed on Carla’s attitudes regarding her situation. She had betrayed a powerful and wide-reaching organization who would stop at nothing to achieve ther goals. That she thwarted their plans would not be soon forgotten.

Napoleon pushed Illya’s wheelchair over to park him right next to Carla. She drew back from his icy blue stare. 

Napoleon perched himself in the seat on the other side of Illya with his arm draped across the back of Illya’s wheelchair and leaned over to her, “By now the police have found the car with the bodies and they will discover that the female wasn’t you and that you are alive. You don’t want those people to find you, do you? Look at my partner here, THRUSH doesn’t fool around.”

Carla glanced at Illya and looked away, ashamed.  She knew it was her fault that these two men who came to take her to safety were nearly killed, particularly the Russian. She didn’t like him but she didn’t want him dead.

“I know…” she said faintly, looking at her hands. "I think... I think I just want to go home to my parents."

“I know it’s difficult, giving up your life and loved ones to start over,” Illya told her.  “Please continue to think about it before you leave here.  We don’t want you to die and we will do everything we can to help you start over, but you have to make the decision. We can’t do it for you.”

She looked up at him, her face reddening. He was half smiling at her and his blue eyes had gotten noticeably warmer, an expression she found disconcerting, considering his behavior when she was with him.

“Miss DeStephano, you will be released today," Waverly continued. "You can either walk out of here with a new identity, OR you can return to your previous life and take your chances with THRUSH. We will not be able to protect you. It’s your choice.”

Carla looked around at the men. “I have decided,” she said. “I want to go home to my parents in Montana.”

Napoleon nodded sadly at Carla, wishing her luck. Illya was doing his best not to show it, but he was tiring rapidly. Waverly noticed it too and dismissed his agents.

The two agents said their goodbyes as Napoleon pulled Illya’s chair away from Carla’s to her relief. Carla and Waverly watched the two men leave. 

“Back to Medical for you, you need your beauty sleep. LOTS of beauty sleep,” Napoleon told his friend on their way to the door.

“I would appreciate it if you could please avoid bumping me into the walls at every corner.”

“How about we take the stairs down this time, hmm?”

**Author's Note:**

> In chapter five, the events in the Intensive Care Unit were inspired by my own and my family's experiences when my father was in the intensive care back in '83. I spent more time on that than I might have otherwise, but I felt that it was a source of healing for Napoleon, being with those people and the support they offered to him while he waited for a sign from Illya.


End file.
